The Tucker Richards emails
by cactusx33
Summary: At the height of the Leveson Inquiry, Malcolm Tucker finds that Cal Richards has one of his text messages on file. Instead of reporting it via the proper channels, he decides to tackle his opposite number head on. What follows is their exchange. One-shot, rated M for the language befitting such an email conversation. Enjoy!


_A/N: Despite his limited screen time, Cal 'The Fucker' Richards is one of my favourite characters on the show. One thing I loved about the Missing DoSac Files was the greater context it gave on his column and his weird friendship, and mutual hostility, with Malcolm. I've heard the new series is about the Leveson Inquiry, so I thought it would be funny to do an email exchange with that in mind. Language is, in keeping with The Thick of It, totally obscene._

_I was going to do traditional email format, with [mailto: etc] but FFnet won't let me do that for some weird reason. It's a shame, because Malcolm's email is dontblamemenowthateverything isfucked which is funny._

From: Malcolm Tucker

To: Cal Richards

Subject: Are you in my head?!

Hi there, wee man.

You'll probably have a great laugh at the situation I was in the other day. A real knee-slapper, as you might say. Actually, I have no fucking clue whether you'd say it, but I read it in your column for that arse-rag of arse-rags, the Sun. Anyway. I was having a pleasant chat with a former DoSac special advisor. His identity I won't disclose, but he's having an on-again off-again relationship with one of _your _special advisors, and his first name sounds like 'brolly'. Well, it wasn't so much a pleasant chat as a fucking Gestapo interrogation, but that's besides the point. Funny thing was, quite recently, he'd got back after defiling the horsey fucking minge who winds Terri up all day in DoSac, gaily picking up his briefcase before going home to wank over Made in Chelsea, or whatever the mincing little prick does with his free time. But in his haste to get out of there, he picked up something else that looked similar. Turned out it had a load of files inside that you'd told dear Em to shred, but she hadn't got round to it yet. And it contained, among other things, a transcript of a text message I sent Tom Rudd telling him I'd covered up his little anti-depressant problem. Seems you were ready to leak this bad boy if the election wasn't going your way.

How'd you know what I wrote to the ex PM, Cal? Are you a mind reader? If so, you're wasting your talents in DoSac. You should be in Vegas, ripping off that big cunt from _Everybody Loves Raymond _in high stakes poker. If you can't read my mind, on the other hand, the only alternative is that you hacked my phone. But, hang on, that would make you a dirty fucking liar, as you already told the Leveson Inquiry that whole hacking scandal was untrue!

If you are a psychic, mate, then do us both a favour and stay out of my head. If you did hack my phone, then be afraid, my pint-sized amigo, be very afraid. Reason being, I'll have to spend countless hours, and years, making you pay. I'm going to strap on my biggest fucking horse-sized dildo and teach you a brand new definition of pain. Remember the fucking vagina monster from Star Wars? The Sarlacc? (Thanks, Wikipedia). You're going in there head first, Cal, and you're gonna know what fucking agony feels like.

Hugs and kisses,

Malc x

* * *

From: Cal Richards

To: Malcolm Tucker

Subject: re: Are you in my head?!

Hi Malcolm,

To answer your question, of course I'm in your head, you fucking Scottish madman. For all your temper tantrums and mental rants, you know you don't have anything on me. It winds you up that I'm better than you, and it really winds you up that people are more scared of me than of you. If I were you, I wouldn't be surprised, old son. You've threatened to carve out the organs of so many people, but have you ever really destroyed someone? Oh, I'm sure you've hindered the aspirations of some junior minister who crossed you, but you don't have the bollocks to ruin someone's life. Mannion reckons your bark is worse than your bite, and JB agrees. Me, I wreck people all the time, and have enough energy left to stomp cats at the weekend. Actually, that last bit's a joke, but the point is, you're way out of your depth.

Honoured you've taken an interest in the old column, by the way. "He No's, You Know". Classic! The editor reckoned it would play well with the illiterate fucking bottom feeders. Honestly, I was on so much PCP when I wrote that, I'm surprised I got a coherent fucking sentence across.

Leveson is a boring old cunt, isn't he? He looks like Michael Howard's mentally deficient brother. I can't honestly say I know how your private texts got into dear Emma's folder, but I'm honestly

insulted you think me capable of such an obscene breach of privacy. I mean, above all, who gives a solitary shit about what you've got to say about anything anymore, Malc? You're not the heart of darkness with his finger on the pulse anymore. You're an old man with his fingers up his arse.

Best wishes,

Cal :)

PS. Still on for tennis on Tuesday?

* * *

From: Cal Richards

To: Ollie Reeder

Subject: Just a quick one..,

Hi, Ollie. Hope you're well. I know you've been job hunting like crazy since we threw your party into opposition, so I'll only leave a quick message:

**NOBODY FUCKS WITH THE FUCKER. IF YOU'RE NOT TERRIFIED YET YOU FUCKING WILL BE YOU SPYING PIECE OF SHIT.**

* * *

From: Malcolm Tucker

To: Cal Richards

Subject: re: re: Are you in my head?!

Dearest Cal,

I fucking love it when you do the tough guy act. It gets me excited. Last night I was so hot took the gimp out of his cage, and...well, you can imagine the rest. But I wonder, I honestly wonder,what the source of your inadequacy is. I mean, you must feel pretty fucking inadequate to carry yourself the way you do. Is it because you're small? Because you're shorter than most women and are totally inferior where it counts? I feel for you, mate. There's a term for what you've got; it's called a Napoleon complex. And being a CUNT.

Best, Malcolm

PS. Yeah, tennis sounds lovely.

* * *

From: Cal Richards

To: Malcolm Tucker

Subject: re: re: re: Are you in my head?!

The gimp, huh? I wondered where Jamie had gotten to.

* * *

From: Malcolm Tucker

To: Cal Richards

Subject: re: re: re: re: Are you in my head?!

Oh, you're funny, pal, fucking well funny. In fact, forget the bloody poker, you should be a comedian. But I'm sick of being fucking glib about this with you. If I find out you've hacked my phone, or my email, or anything I've ever used to communicate with the outside world, I am going to see to it that Leveson and his merry cronies will nail your balls to the gear mechanisms at Tower fucking Bridge. Every time they raise or lower the bridges, you will be in excruciating fucking agony, and I'll make sure they do if three times a day.. You know your editor during your column days? They're making a fucking example out of her as they speak. You know the one, she's got red hair, she looks like a hippie but makes Enoch Powell look like George fucking Galloway, she's so right wing. Rachel Marsh? Ring any bells? All she did was jack a few texts from some boring celebs who have got fuck all to say for themselves. If Leveson and his cronies find out you hacked the Director of Communication for Labour's phone, to grub for dirt that would have impacted the election if you'd used it, you'll cause a crisis for the Tories that will make Black Wednesday look like a tiny fucking blip on the radar.

All these emails are going in the file by the way, pal. When I show em to the Inquiry it'll be remarkable for you either spilling the beans, Nixon style, or avoiding responsibility like the evasive, slippery fuck we all know you are. Your choice, funny man.

Malcolm xoxo

PS. Nice work on Ollie, by the way. He's so shit scared that when I popped in to visit the hovel he calls home I nearly got shot with the shotgun he now keeps booby trapped to the front door. Well, that's not true, but it nearly fucking is.

* * *

From: Cal Richards

To: Malcolm Tucker

Subject: Oh FFS

Sorry I took a while to respond, I told Stewart I was going to pinch a hair off his baldy fucking head every time he uses the term 'blue sky thinking' in a meeting. So far, my entire duties at DoSac involve enforcing this dictum.

Okay, you sensitive wanker, I know what you're saying. You might not be as scary as you think you are, but you're no soft touch. The last thing I want is to get hauled up before Leveson and his little mates. Tell you what, you keep schtum about me getting my hands on your texts, and I'll get rid of some of the shit I have on you. Do you remember Phil? That fucking drip of a special advisor who's barely competent enough to fetch my coffee. All those horrible comments on Peter Mannion's blog? He did a bit of digging and found out they all came from your fucking IP address. Busted! As the kids and the fucking skagg-addicted weirdos say. The party's been saving that for a rainy day. Quid pro quo, amigo. You forget all about this little clusterfuck and I'll personally wipe any mention of your trolling from our records. Sound good?

Regards,

Cal :-D

* * *

From: Malcolm Tucker

To: Cal Richards

Subject: re: Oh FFS

You know something, wee man? Sometimes, I think we should have been brothers. Of course, you'd be the fucking runty little brother that I have to protect from the big boys at school, but we'd be brothers all the same. You're a conniving one, I'll give you that. Don't get me wrong, I shouldn't give a shit about the whole blog thing, but it might be a bit of an awkward one if I ever want to get back in the party's good graces. Alright, I'll bite. If I keep this away from baldy and his little inquiry, I want to see pictures of you shredding anything you've got. And if you've got any more film after you're done, I'd really appreciate a picture of your dick. It's been ages since I've had a really fucking good laugh.

Oh, and one more thing, I want you to tell me how to hack into someone's phone. There's loads of hijinks I've got in mind.

Yours,

Malcy

* * *

From: Cal Richards

To: Malcolm Tucker

Subject: re: re: Oh FFS

No can do, Tucker. This'll mind fuck you the most, but I didn't hack your phone. Marsh knows how to do it, but she considers it a trade secret. Then there's this PI I used once, but I don't even remember his name. And no, I'm not a mind reader either. Remember when you sent that text to Tom Rudd? To save time between meetings he merely forwarded the message to some of the MPs he was most worried about deserting him to let them know he was still on top. One of those, if you can believe this, was your old friend Cliff Lawton, who as we both know defected to us after the last election. Really fucking committed to hating you, by the way. He told me about the happy pills and showed me that text to prove it. Pretty simple, huh? Afraid to disappoint.

But, yeah, I'll get rid of everything on this, and I'm glad you've seen it's in our mutual interest for you to do the same.

Nice one, Malc. Dinner on Sunday? The kids can't wait to see you again.

Best,

Cal

* * *

**One week later…**

From: Terri Coverley

To: Glenn Cullen, Ollie Reeder

Subject: Bit of news…

Hi boys,

Thought I'd distract you from your long and demoralising job hunts by sharing a bit of gossip from the DoSac water cooler. Do you remember Cliff Lawton? Joined the Tories to spite Malcolm? He's only been arrested! Apparently, he's been selling parliamentary secrets to the Mossad for years. He says that it's a massive fix up and that people are out to get him, but he would say that, wouldn't he?

Best regards,

Terri

PS. Ollie, speak to your ex. If she moans at me for getting the coffee order wrong again I'm going to throw the lot in her face.


End file.
